Diary of a Mad Schoolgirl
by Calfie
Summary: [High school AU] A nutjob of a student chronicles her odd, sloppy affair with the vice principal via her English class journal. KakuSaku.
1. Chapter 1

FOREWARD

Stapled hereafter are the journal entries required for the creative writing assignment, "Journey to Me: A Chance for Introspection." It was assigned to help us get to know ourselves through our writing habits, our style of language and, of course, our own private thoughts. You encouraged us to be open, and be honest—and that although you'd be reading our first entries and probably be skimming through the rest—to not be lazy with the assignment. We were to write one to one-and-a-half pages on the week's topic, some intentionally controversial and some vague.

I, like everyone else, wrote a boring entry about the first week's topic (what are your thoughts on space exploration). You wrote in red pen at the end, "Very good! :)" My entire essay was about how I would blow up the Kennedy Space Center if I were a terrorist. At the time, I was struggling with the difference between _accept_ and _except_. I have since changed my ways.

For my own personal amusement, and for other reasons I can't fathom or bring myself to admit, you will find a collection of journal entries written in vague correspondence to the essay topics assigned, beginning with space exploration (which I've excepted as a reality, accept I really don't care about it) which I've re-tooled in to a more exciting paradigm. Whether anything described in these entries is fact or fantasy I will leave up to your imagination. Names will not be changed and if it opens an investigation, (which I seriously doubt because there is a low probability of you actually reading this), I will laugh.

Thank you for reading and please enjoy,

SAKURA HARUNO


	2. Chapter 2

THOUGHTS ON SPACE EXPLORATION

In an earlier journal entry I submitted, I presented the idea of blowing up the Kennedy Space Center because I was listening to a lot of trashy music at the time and the doctor upped my Prozac dosage. The thought of destroying one of the nation's great pillars of learning and institutions of intellectual development disgusts me, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a disgusting anarchist pig.

Personally, space exploration is boring. There are lots of "intellectuals" who hail folks like Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking as gods among men. They are/were very knowledgeable in their fields of science, and I respect them for that. And, to be honest, the thought of alien life is tantalising. I can't imagine being the only race of beings sentient enough to flush our feces down a bowl in this cold, lonely universe.

Sometimes I think to hell with Neil DeGrasse Tyson. At night, when I'm lying in bed and my thoughts seem to be drifting across my brain like a brief and explosive sandstorm, I will have a bizarre idea like we should cut the federal funding for NASA and increase the salaries of our nation's representatives. Here is my admittance: with enough cunning and obnoxious signs in peoples' yards, I sincerely believe I could win an election. Now as a freshman in high school, I know it's ridiculous and I'm not even noticed by the teacher who grades my essays, but next year I'll be eligible to work at a fast food restaurant. You know how it goes, an idea begets ambition (I guess), ambition begets money, money begets materialization of an idea. By the end of next summer, I would have a respectable fund for breast implants. After that, I would buy low-cut blouses and paste myself all over town like an overly enthusiastic realtor. It's all a matter of advertising and how you use your budget.

One of the most inspiring and economically fastidious men I've come to know in my public education taught me things like this during a personal finance seminar he hosted after school in late September. His name is Mr. Kakuzu, and he is our vice principal.

It might come as a surprise to you that I was the only student in attendance. So as you can imagine, the setting was intimate and—despite Mr. Kakuzu's gruff and greedy reputation—it was a good time. Apparently he was disappointed by the lack of interest, because when I walked into the computer lab, his face was planted on the admin's desk and obscured by his long, dark hair.

At the time it was a big deal, but has since blown over, but Mr. Kakuzu had two big stitches in his cheeks. Not only was he ugly in personality to the student body, but they also now had another reason to make fun of him: a troublesome senior named Hidan had been walking his mastiff Tiny down the street, Mr. Kakuzu was walking to the post office with a letter, and, subsequently Tiny mauled Mr. Kakuzu.

Hidan claimed Tiny had an aversion to mailmen, and by association, mail, and was threatened by the get-well card Mr. Kakuzu was sending to his mother, who had been hospitalized for food poisoning in Puerto Vallarta.

Mr Kakuzu is a considerate person, and did not want to hurt the dog. But he did want to hurt Hidan, so he took him to small claims court. After losing the settlement, Mr. Kakuzu became depressive, especially so after learning Tiny was going to be euthanized because he had attacked an actual mailman. He has a heart.

I remember the misery in his eyes when his head rose, and how rumpled his hair was. He smelled like the soap from hotels and looked like a much fatter and fleshier Jack Skellington, with those ridiculous stitches and emptiness in his eyes. He had broad shoulders, a square jaw and a complexion that suggest perhaps a Sicilian heritage. He was on the hairy side too; his hands looked like monkey paws and a few thick black coils of hair curled at his throat. If this sounds like a sexual assessment, it was.

Anyway, I sat down and his head returned to the desk. There was a stretch of comfortable silence until I coughed politely, to let him know of my existence. He raised his head again stared right past mine, to the clock. Sighing through his nostrils and turning his attention to his computer, he said to me, "This was a bust. You can go."

"No thanks, I'm sure more people will show," I said. It was three-thirty and the seminar began at three-ten.

His monkey paws tangled in his lustrous, hotel-soap hair. "Really, go. I don't have a computer at home, and I can use this time to work on my budget-cut analysis."

At this point, I will note that I was a little flustered and my heart might've been beating irregularly. I was attracted this man—this man whom I would later learn was a Vietnam war vet, almost forty years my senior, shopped exclusively at Goodwill for clothes and was very talented with his monkey paws. So to my own defense, I was feeling emotional, and when I approached him at the admin desk, with a blank face and a blank spreadsheet in Excel, I forgot my virtues.

"Mr. Kakuzu," I said as sweetly as I could manage, "Ten years from now, when you're retired and I'm in the gutter snorting crack from a john's dick, will you throw me some change? Because if you don't teach me about credit and interest, that's where I'm going to end up."

It was a bold-faced lie, and anyone with a room-temperature IQ wouldn't buy it, but this guy looked genuinely guilty. I don't want to map the transition of his guilt and my lust to purely his desire and self-digust out its tedium, but I will say this: it happened in a New York minute.

Through the latticed window of the computer lab, you could see a young girl sitting in a old man's lap. In my position, I felt hard-breathing against my cheek and a hard-on against my buttocks. His hand covered mine on the mouse as we negotiated through a finance lab he'd found on some website. Every now and then I stroked his bristly thumb with my small, pale one. I took almost sadistic delight in his uncomfortable reactions, from his pumping legs to his erractic heartbeart—I don't think I learned a thing about personal finance that day. Only about being a cocktease and getting my way.


	3. Chapter 3

PRESIDENT FOR A DAY

Disclaimer: I thought some of your journal entry topics were silly, like this one. A woman is never going to be president; not unless she has a sex change and a really good surgeon.

At some point in the last entry, I told you how Mr. Kakuzu was a Vietnam war vet (that makes him a little older than my father). This was a topic that cropped up in conversation at a Financial Wizards meeting—a private assembly for me and my favorite vice principal. He held it in his kitchen; vanilla wafers, malted milk and Vicodins for his face. Once a week, for a couple hours until my jaw hurt.

We talked about lots of things, like his mother, his abysmal dating life, him. I asked him loads of questions, because I'm a curious girl, and with each answer he was rewarded at the end of our time with something more intimate each time. The more at-length he went, the more time I spent fixated on his release. History, war, blood and gore fascinate me, so I felt obligated to give my appreciation to a breathing relic of our military. My enthusiasm is sometimes underwhelming to people, so after he divulged his time in a POW camp, I held his head to my breast with theatrical flourish, stroking his hair and calling him brave. He was my poor baby.

I like to think he equates this to the time he was with a Thai hooker—only slightly less bittersweet. I saw the cookie crumbs on my shirt getting into his hair, so I loosened my grip. He pulled back for a kiss. His kisses are to date the most mind-numbing things I've experienced.

First, one of his monkey paws spreads delicately at the base of your skull, your nape. The other grabs your buttocks in a vice. Second, you'll feel the prickle of stitch and whisker against your own cheeks. Third, he bites into you like an apple. When it registers, it can feel painful and passionate. The monkey paw at your nape will clench then roam to your other buttock, and together they will travel down your thights. You will go mad with rage when he pulls back. But don't hold your breath, because he's laying back so you're on top (if there's a sofa in the vicinity). He eases you on to his hard body, and you feel it jutting from his musty khaki pants, his rock-hard-on.

This all happens after he sedates you with cookies and cold glass of malted milk, and tells you gruff vignettes of his life. He likes to fool around with your blood pressure, this guy, and get all touchy-feely. The charm of a person who has no sense of humor and no social filter. The kind that fucks around with school girls like me because he's got no self-esteem. The kind who wants a kiss from a hooker but not for the intimacy of it.

I think I've adequately described his hook—that treacherous kiss—so now let's skip ahead to the part where he begins peeling my clothes from my body.

All the blood the should be flowing to his head was in his dick. I wondered if he was ever with any guys or girls in 'Nam, if he raped somebody's corpse for the hell of it, or if he used that monster cock as a machete. No fooling, Mr. Kakuzu was _huge_. He had me panting like a dog when he started pulling my sweater over my head. A snap later, it was on the floor and his thumb teased one nipple with slow up-and-down motions, like he was working a light switch. My own hands clenched in his hair, the excitement causing me to be a little grabby, and I almost pulled a chunk out when I felt the hot, stitchy mouth cover the tip of my breast, and that riot of a tongue work me over. I tried not to be loud, but honestly, how could I. I felt damp, sticky and hot down there.

By the time he got done there, my chest was all red and blotchy. I, being appreciative of this, wanted to return the favor, but was unsure. Folding my arms over his shoulders, I leaned in for another kiss—he met me with as much vigour and tenderness as before. I knew what _I_ wanted. I caught myself guiding one his hands to the waistband of my panties, surprised at how bent to my whim he was. He teased me a bit before rolling his thumb over my clit. Honest to G-d, I felt ready to die. I melted. I came, I think. It felt good doing it to myself, but to have someone else do it was a thousand times more exciting.

After recovering, I nibbled on his jaw, right where his pulse beat, and lower still, until I reached that furry line of demarcation at his collar. His hands didn't stop gliding all over me. He was patient with me, and silent, probably just biding the time until I decided to mess around with his dick. Eventually I got there, and eventually, I had to make him understand I had never done this before, and had no idea what to do.

I hated to pull him out of our mood, but I did, with a childish whine: "What am I even supposed to do with it? There's no way the whole thing'll ever fit in my mouth!"

He laughed, and I wanted to sit on his chest as he laughed. The vibrations. Oh.

Here was an image of me: sweaty, hair everywhere, naked from the waist up, scowling at him, with a giant cock springing right at me like G-d himself's mighty index finger. I didn't even wait for him to respond, so overcome with anger and instinct that I licked a particularly noticeable vein from base to head in one fluid motion. He groaned low, arching ever so slightly. Up this close and personal, I noticed a few of his pubes were gray. The tip of his penis was soft and spongy; I wrapped my lips around it and popped it in and out a few times before growing bored of it. Regaining some of his composure, Mr Kakuzu molded my hands around his penis and had me pump slowly, and then faster, with more vigour. He pressed my face against his penis so it was smashed against my nose. Momentarily I was frightened. I worked with my hands and I brought my mouth back into the fold, with licks and kisses and nips. I traced the ridges around the head with my tongue. He tasted salty.

My mind was elsewhere when the spunk arrived. It got all over my fingers and my chin, a little on my mouth. It was disgusting. I sprung up immediately to get a tissue. Mr. Kakuzu fell back on the sofa, heaving, his eerie green eyes looking calm, sleepy.

I tried making conversation while I wiped off, but he'd have none of that. Rather, he thanked me and let me lie on top of him for a post-orgasmic nap, only I couldn't fall asleep. My mind was racing. Lazily he stroked me through my panties and, surprise surprise, I was excited once more. I kept jabbering as he took he there, and he answered with kisses and grunts and pinches. I asked him what he thought about Hilary Rodham Clinton; he raked my clit so harshly with his thumb I might as well died. Eventually he brought me to completion and I felt the stirrings of sleep, too.

I thought about women presidents, and an answer to your silly question. I wondered if a woman president would give a good blowjob. If Hilary Clinton was the first female president, we sure know she wouldn't because she's no Monica Lewinsky. As a woman president, I would give my first man a blowjob from under the desk in the oval office. While Putin was calling in a crisis, I would be down on my knees, doing the dance with the one-eyed monster.

When Mr. Kakuzu woke up, he woke me up, and told me I probably should go home. I told him it didn't matter, because the only person home was my stepbrother Kabuto and what did he care. It was Friday night, he and I had no-where to be in the morning. I had even the slight notion I would spend the night. My parents were too stupid to care. But with no amount of arguing did he relent, and I was faced with the task of walking home smelling of sex and dodging coked-up teenagers on their way home from the football game.


End file.
